


ashen blood

by Cygrus



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Blood Pacts, Blowjobs, Body Worship, Canon Compliant, Clothed Sex, M/M, Magic, Porn with some plot, Power Dynamics, Viren's Sacred Skin, as of season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 05:32:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17975375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cygrus/pseuds/Cygrus
Summary: Gone from his prison cell, Viren has become a fugitive to Katolis, and has only Aaravos to rely on.





	ashen blood

“I frighten you.”

The words had been spoken thoughtlessly, a habit he’d never had in his youth, but one that had become an unfortunate consequence of living without words for centuries. All he had were the insects, whom he considered friends and familiars, almost family, but magical as they were, as useful as he’d made them, they were, in the end, mindless. 

But Viren was not. 

Aaravos watched Viren react; even in the short time they’d been in contact, Aaravos had learned what to look for and expect, Viren’s once clear eyes narrowing into slits, the lines around his mouth stretching with the weight of a frown —which Aaravos had also become accustomed to, for Viren had yet to show him a smile or any semblance of emotion outside of malcontent or distrust. 

Raising a brow and tilting his head with effortless innocence, the corners of Aaravos’ lips curled up, yet he saw that Viren remained undeterred. It had become apparent that kind faces did not put Viren at ease, nor did kind gestures, for Viren had not yet forgiven the minor mishap that had occurred a week and a half ago now —even when Aaravos had aided in his escape, helping him to slip past the royal guards unseen and guide him towards his children, who they’d yet to meet. 

At the first raise of signal that Viren, lord turned traitor, had escaped the shackles of his dank cell, the tension within the capital city thickened to a choking point. That had come a day after they’d left, Viren taking with him a cloak, the confiscated staff, the mirror that was no minor issue for a man of his growing age to carry, and a satchel of coins that would pay his way across the countryside. 

They’d already been gone from the city, walking an empty forest path on its outskirts, but word of mouth spread quickly among humans. Only a week had passed and Viren was a fugitive to the people he’d served, the people who’d turned their backs on him without pause for question or thought. There would be no reaching the children—who Aaravos came to know as Claudia and Soren, pretty names—Viren mentioning one night beside a dying fire that he’d decided to not burden them with his own troubles, alluding that he’d done so enough already. 

And so Aaravos would now bear the brunt of Viren’s frustration. Their travels had already seen him endure a mulish silent treatment, the mirror through which they spoke covered by a sheet and strapped to Viren’s back. He’d asked for at least a corner to be exposed, just so that he could see out; Viren had ignored him. Aaravos settled instead for listening to Viren’s mutters and grunts, which were endless but welcome to ears who’d not heard such tones in many moons. 

They were stationed now at the northern border of Katolis, in a village that had yet to receive the news of Viren’s treachery, though Aaravos doubted any single person here would recognize Viren to begin with. They were simple folk who led simple lives, unbothered by the politics of their homeland outside of electing a mayor every few years. This was what Viren had said, once Aaravos had finally coaxed more than five words from his elusive mouth. The way Viren had spoken held elements of wanting to ease worry—like a father speaking to his children—but like the townsfolk, Aaravos remained unbothered. 

His curiosity, however, had been piqued. Last he’d been in Katolis—stars, had it been a long time—the nation had been small and weak, a fledgling warring for land from its neighbors in fits of fire and fury. It had since become a substantial power, even when its king fell as easily as its queen, even without a soul on its throne. It was good that the human lands were at peace.

Beyond this town was a stretch of lush green valleys that rolled across the boundary separating Katolis and Duren. Aaravos had thought it odd that a border town was not more populated; Viren stated the official border city, far more garrisoned compared to the few lazy soldiers who skulked here, laid further west, and that they would not go there. 

But they would not stay long here, either. Holed up at a cheap inn built from stone and wood, the room Viren had been given was small, with a single decrepit bed, an oak desk and chair, and a rack that held Viren’s cloak. There was a window through which the setting sun cast rays inside, but Viren shied away from the light, just as he shied away from even the smallest amounts of human contact. 

When they’d entered the inn, Aaravos heard the attention Viren drew, whispers lifting in the air like dull hymns, and he heard too how Viren had pulled his hood harder over the face that hadn’t seen sunlight for days now. He’d arranged lodgings with the innkeeper and in one word denied the assistance of a sweet houseboy, who’d offered to take the mirror upstairs. He’d not left the confines of the room since, throwing the door’s latch behind him. 

It’d been nearly two hours since then. Viren sat at the rotting desk, hunched over and clutching the roots of his greying hair. His breathing was uneven and dry, desperate in a way. Aaravos first thought it to be exhaustion, but then decided it was something else instead, his mouth moving on its own. 

It had taken Aaravos’ voice for Viren to lift his head, his eyes black from both distaste and dark magic. “Frighten me?” he said. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve survived a strike from Thunder himself. What reason have I to fear something like you?”

“Look at yourself.” 

Aaravos gestured a hand forward, the tips of his fingers brushing his side of the mirror. Viren’s brows drew together as he gazed back at Aaravos, his mouth beginning to move with another question, but Aaravos did not explain himself further, a flick of the wrist taking him from Viren’s sight. 

The reflection Viren stared at now was his own, Aaravos watching as Viren was forced to acknowledge the wreck he’d become, the toll withdrawal had taken on him. His pale skin was patched with hideous marks the same color as not quite healed scars; his hair was the same, painted in white streaks where there should have been softer colors. He’d withered severely; Aaravos thought him akin to a husk, perhaps a walking corpse—and then thought him quite seemly regardless, handsome despite the madness. 

A muscle slid in Viren’s jaw as he stood, but he kept a hand placed solidly against the table’s surface. He said, stiffly, “What point are you trying to make?”

“My point,” said Aaravos, flickering back into view, “is that I’ve made you this way, and you cannot fathom it.” He took a step closer to the mirror; his voice dropped an octave. “You’d never felt that before. The power you wielded was unlike anything else. All spells, all rituals, everything you’ve learned in your years past—they pale in comparison to the strength I provided you.”

The hand at Viren’s side balled into a fist, distinct veins raising beneath his skin. He looked ready to shatter the mirror and be done with this conversation—be done with Aaravos—but he wouldn’t do it, nor could he, not with the weakened state he was in. All he’d be able to accomplish was perhaps a sprained wrist and a spill of blood. 

There was no simplicity in the way they looked at each other. Aaravos smiled and saw the swell of tension that made Viren’s lithe shoulders pull back, a dim flicker behind the blacks of his eyes surging suddenly. It had been some time since Aaravos had dealt with such a challenge, so used to how easy it had been once, when humans came willingly to him and fell into his palms to become dim stars embedded in his skin. They’d been sweet, like untouched lovers.

Viren was defiant, with no sweetness to define him; Aaravos preferred that. 

“I’ve made you this way,” Aaravos said again, watching the way his words infuriated Viren into silence. “You fear the power I possess, and you fear yourself when I let you use it.”

“ _ Let _ me use it,” Viren echoed, his whisper carrying signs of bitter amusement. “Should I  _ thank _ you? Is that what you want? Do you expect me to kneel and ask that you— That you  _ control _ me again?” Viren came forward with quick steps, grasping the mirror’s frame, his voice raising. “I killed soldiers! You turned me into a  _ murderer! _ ”

“You were one already.”

It was the same as reaching through the mirror and striking Viren across the face. Staggering backwards, Viren’s knees almost gave. He steadied himself on the chair and, with some effort, drew it away from the desk and in front of the mirror. Once he’d settled himself into it, a fit of coughs came, hollow and ragged. When he breathed, there was a raspy quality to it. Aaravos wasn’t sure whether it was from the withdrawal, or from anger. Both, perhaps.

“You’re this surprised?” Aaravos almost laughed, but trained his tongue, knowing Viren wouldn’t hesitate to cover him again. He said, “How many years have you been a practitioner of the dark arts? Given your appearance now, I assume many. You are worse than—”

There was a pause in which Aaravos didn’t continue, his smile falling as his words died off. His brows drew together, only briefly. He knew that Viren had noticed his hesitance, and was thankful that Viren was still too upset to question the lull. 

“Think,” Aaravos continued, slowly, “of the lives you’ve taken from Xadia. Used for your own means, to further your understanding, gather power. You’ve been remorseless, yes? And you thought yourself free from sin? You continue to fascinate me, Lord.”

“You intend to lecture me?” Where Viren held the chair’s arms, his knuckles had become a stark white. “You think I haven’t heard this before? That it would be a favor unto myself if I stopped?” He said, lowly, with dangerous intent, “Not even the King himself could convince me. You think an  _ elf _ can?”

“No.” When Aaravos’ smile returned, it bore teeth. “I don’t wish to deter you, Lord. I only ask that you rely on me to help you in this time of need.”

Scoffing, Viren’s eyes slid closed, but the rigid tension in the planes of his face deepened, dark lines appearing as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Discontent radiated off of him, but his posture seemed to relax by a margin despite it. He extended an elegant, boot-clad leg forward, the one he treated tenderly. His features twisted a moment, then returned to their usual mien—flat, disinterested. 

Aaravos focused more on the leg he was presented with. Long—not as long as his own—and concealed in a once rich black, sullied by the dirt of travel. Aaravos’ gaze drifted idly up its expanse and he realized for the first time that Viren did not expose even the most measly glimpse of flesh. Almost amused, almost disappointed, Aaravos entertained the thought that Viren was, perhaps, prudish. 

Their eyes met, and Aaravos felt what was left of his heart miss a beat. He didn’t deign to look away, staring back at Viren, who seemed just as curious in the way his own gaze seemed to wander, first to the hollow junction at Aaravos’ neck, and then lower, to the mark that ordained his chest. 

“You are curious,” said Aaravos. 

“But not frightened.” 

“Say what you must, but do not deny what you felt.” Turning his back to Viren, Aaravos clasped his hands together and paced away. A chair scraped loudly against the wood floor. Aaravos smiled to himself and glanced back, finding Viren having to steady himself, poorly. “Euphoric, wasn’t it? That night. Allow yourself the experience. Allow me to deliver you a greater pleasure.”

Viren stared back at him, a brow raising high on his forehead. He was straight-faced, but beneath that, intrigued. “I’ve taken  _ lovers _ more impressive.”

It was the second time that night Aaravos had been forced to bite back a laugh, his mouth pursing thin with the effort. He considered Viren a moment, taking in his appearance once more before saying, simply, “Then I will have to prove myself better than they.”

Aaravos left the mirror and went to the shelves that housed tomes and texts he’d read one-thousand times over. He knew what to look for, and knew that there was more fun to be had in taking his time finding it, his hand extending forward unhurriedly as he traced a finger across the dusty spines. The burn of Viren’s gaze lingered on the back of his neck. 

Another thing Aaravos had learned was that Viren’s composure, as well as his patience, were areas in which he lacked severely. Perhaps it was the folly of humans and their shorter life expectancies; perhaps it was just Viren’s poor personality. He was already tapping his foot. Aaravos allowed himself to imagine the expression Viren wore now, his ashen skin pulled restlessly tight.

Finding the book he needed, Aaravos drew it from the shelf and swiped a hand over its surface, the gathered dust and dirt wafting away in suffocating clouds. Its binding was a deep blue in color, with the shape of a waning moon sewn onto it with silver thread. He tucked it under his arm and sought out the second text, finding it just as easily. This one was red and bore the image of a sun, the threads enchanted to gleam even without light. 

Viren said, “I didn’t take you as the type to need books.”

“When you get to be my age—which you won’t, of course—” 

“Of course.”

“—you find that memories of even the simplest things elude you. My mind is not what it once was.”

When Aaravos turned back to Viren, he saw a glimmer of disbelief in Viren’s eyes, to which Aaravos smiled. He came forward and set the books atop the small work table he’d placed off to the mirror’s side. The pages, most made from treated creature skins, held thousands of unimportant passages that flipped past in blurs of ink and blood. Viren had to crane his neck to see what Aaravos was doing, but Aaravos had made sure the book’s contents could not be seen. These spells were not meant for Viren.

This was ancient knowledge; Aaravos imagined better alternatives had long since been found, but he hadn’t been allowed access to such updates. He studied the necessary runes a moment, burned their shapes to his mind, then turned to face Viren, who took two steps back. They gazed at each other; Aaravos moved first, drawing the small bowl he kept at the table’s corner closer, though it wasn’t yet needed. 

The way Viren held himself was reminiscent of a caged animal, but standing had been made difficult for him, his poor leg barely able to support the rest of his weight. Aaravos glanced down and saw how Viren’s knees trembled, on the edge of buckling. His chest rose and fell haggardly, his breathing rattling. Every passing minute worsened his condition. 

“That you have survived this long already,” said Aaravos, with as much sincerity as he could muster, “is admirable.”

There was sweat at Viren’s temples. He said, “I have survived worse.”

“Of this I am aware, but it is a fool’s errand to endure this any longer. You need not act strong in my presence, Lord.” 

Aaravos paced forward and raised a hand, resting his palm flat against the mirror’s surface. It was cold to the touch, must like the rest of the room, the fire’s warmth a mere facade. This fact did not bother Aaravos; his skin, too, was cold like ice, like the endless stretch of space itself. The first flicker of heat he’d ever felt had been almost painful to him. That hadn’t changed much. 

Viren did not approach, hesitance written into his features, the muscles beneath the prison of fabrics pulled taut. He stared at Aaravos’ hand for many moments. Aaravos looked at him and saw glass: helpless, fragile, pretty. 

Aaravos said, “Do you fear intimacy?”

“Intimacy,” said Viren, roughly, “is the least of my concerns here.”

“You’re dying.” The simplicity with which Aaravos spoke made Viren still. “You need me. And I need you.”

Viren laughed; it was sharp and bitter, much like himself. “Do you say this to every human you meet?”

“Only the ones that intrigue me. Let me take care of you, Lord.”

The movements Viren made were stiff with the apprehension that showed clearly on his face. He didn’t want to do this. Aaravos understood; Viren wasn’t the type to hand himself over without second or even third thought, but what he’d yet to understand was that he already had. If Aaravos were less kind, he’d have had Viren on his knees already. 

But Aaravos thought himself a fair man. He waited with the patience that millennia had granted him. Viren approached cautiously, a grunt of pain passing through his lips with each step he made. Lifting his arm also proved difficult, but he managed despite it. He paused a moment, his fingers curling into his palm and turning his knuckles white. 

Aaravos took the moments he had before it happened to assess Viren, assess the spells, and think of the consequences they would bring with them. Last time he’d done this, it had ended miserably. Odd, he thought, that he’d find himself in this situation again, with someone so wholly different, yet so similar. Viren was nothing at all like  _ her _ , who had been kind and giving, mischievous, brighter than any star that shone in the sky or on his skin. 

Next to her, Viren was a moon setting at dawn, the rising colors on the horizon filled with new promise. This was what Aaravos needed—this was who Aaravos had chosen. 

Their hands came together against the glass. Neither felt the other’s touch, but both almost recoiled with the surge of energy that passed through them each. Aaravos felt his skin prickle. Viren, similarly awed, stared back, wide-eyed with the briefest innocence.

Aaravos, gathering himself, said, “Follow my lead, Lord.”

He traced a finger along the mirror’s surface; Viren followed expertly, and in time with each other, they drew the winding shape of a rune, three overlapping circles that held in them intricately woven designs. Aaravos’ mouth moved in silent incantation, his vision turning white with his words. 

Within moments he felt the once familiar pull at his skin, his insides, his being beginning to tremble. His heart’s pulse crescendoed. The feeling wasn’t painful, just strange. He let his eyes close.  

When he opened them again, he stood somewhere new—before Viren, who had grown pallid, his mouth hanging open with horror. For their eyes to meet, Viren had to lift his chin, while Aaravos had to lower his. That the spell worked had Aaravos giddy, but his good mood dissolved quickly to desire instead. 

He turned his head. The small room they stood in together had grown smaller with his presence. If he’d jumped, his horns would touched the wooden beams on the ceiling. There was an oil lamp he hadn’t noticed before, as well as an old journal soiled by water stains, likely left by an old guest. 

None of it interested him. He looked again to Viren and stepped forward, extending a hand and having it slapped away. 

“How—” Viren choked out, bracing himself against the chair, as though to make himself smaller. He looked past Aaravos then, back to the mirror; Aaravos followed his gaze. “No, that’s— You’re not—”

“Soul projection,” Aaravos answered simply, staring at the shell of a body he’d left behind. Its eyes were still closed, the rest of it unmoving. It lived, of course, just without his essence there to control it. “Moon magic. Useful, when it needs to be, but difficult to perform without another person to project to. How fortunate I am to have you, Lord.”

Aaravos returned his attentions to Viren, uninterested in himself. He smiled when he saw Viren had settled himself back in the chair, sweat glistening at his temples, his knees still slightly trembling. His black eyes were empty—just wide, like that of a doe’s. He held himself steady, waiting wordlessly for Aaravos to speak, perhaps to explain his point in doing this.

No explanation came. Aaravos leaned over Viren, ignoring the way he visibly flinched, and traced his jaw with a finger, tilting his head up further until they gazed at each other. Despite the prior reluctance, Viren did not resist now. The simple touch seemed to shift something inside of him. Aaravos saw in him a certain enchantment, one that left him uncharacteristically silent and tame, nothing like how he’d been before, so haughty and hard.

The hand that touched Viren’s face then deigned to travel lower, to what was exposed of his neck. Aaravos’ fingers penetrated the barrier of fabric there and cupped the back of Viren’s neck, feeling a quiver of muscles. He played with the short hair at Viren’s nape, noting that his skin was cold like his own—the same as death itself. 

Aaravos released Viren and touched elsewhere, from shoulder to the length of his arm, lowering himself to one knee and taking Viren’s hand into his own. He spent a moment admiring the elegant thinness of his fingers; these had seen years of hard work, that much Aaravos could tell, calluses roughening what had once been soft and supple. They retained a certain beauty befitting of Viren. 

Aaravos kissed at the spaces between them, then the prominent rise of knuckles, then the back of Viren’s hand, relishing in how his breath audibly hitched. Aaravos’ lips curled against Viren’s skin and he turned Viren’s hand over, kissing the palm now, his mouth lingering there as he drew in a long breath and recited silent words. He wanted to familiarize himself with every inch Viren offered—but understood that it would take some doing, that Viren wouldn’t be wholly willing. 

The kisses trailed further up Viren’s wrist, where Aaravos had to purposely push layers of velvet and cotton back and away, exposing the untouched grey beneath them. The bruises from the prison shackles had faded. Blue veins made faint lines along Viren’s arm; Aaravos kissed there, too, and felt the careful subtleties of Viren’s hesitant surrender. A grunt lodged itself in the column of Viren’s throat. 

Aaravos dared to look up, black staring back at him, vexation etched into Viren’s fine features. Aaravos, from where he kneeled, whispered, “You do not yield as easily as the rest.”

“I’m not taken in by such... tactics.” A hint of disgust. 

“Are you not?” Aaravos moved a hand to Viren’s clothed thigh, a thumb brushing its inner privacies. Viren twitched. “I have much to learn, Lord. Guide me. Tell me what it is that you like.”

“I’d like to know your point in this.” 

“You don’t care.” 

Viren’s brows drew together and created creases along his forehead. His mouth twisted into something hard, lips pursed thin, and he looked ready to rebuke Aaravos’ claim, but Aaravos silenced him by pushing up and laying his lips against Viren’s throat, a death wish by all means, but one he’d been unable to resist, his body consumed with unlikely heat. Viren instinctively grabbed Aaravos’ waist in a hard grip that would have pained anyone else. 

It pleased Aaravos. He positioned himself over Viren, using the too small chair as leverage, his knees pushing Viren’s thighs apart. He kept his mouth planted firmly against Viren’s neck and counted the quick pace of Viren’s heart, the dim throbbing proof that Viren still lived, for now. Not much longer. 

There was some resistance on Viren’s part. He tried to push Aaravos away, a palm pressed against Aaravos’ chest, but he was too weak, and Aaravos made it clear he wouldn’t be moving. Aaravos said, “You need this. Accept it.”

Eventually, a reserved, defeated sigh pushed past Viren’s lips, his hands falling to his sides as he allowed Aaravos to work as he wished. Aaravos smiled to himself. 

They stayed like this for many moments. Aaravos’ tongue traced the veins here, too, their warmth apparent, life not yet gone from them. His fingers followed their trails lower and hooked at the top of Viren’s collar. Forgetting who was beneath him, Aaravos began to boldly undo the laces that held Viren together, but those elegant fingers grabbed his wrist and halted him. 

Aaravos lifted his head, blinking. “Lord?”

“Know your limits.”

“Do you know your own?” 

Aaravos pushed his knee further, pressing it against the intimacy Viren didn’t allow him. Viren’s eyes shut with the movement; his jaw clenched, his throat bobbed. Aaravos leaned down to his ear and kissed the curve where the caterpillar lay—though, at the back of his mind, he understood this part of Viren wouldn’t be necessary. 

The words Viren spoke were forced, biting. “Know your limits,” he said again, his hand resting atop Aaravos’ thigh and holding it in place. “You still haven’t explained—”

When they kissed, it was reluctant, uneager, monotonous. Viren kissed like a virgin—and Aaravos understood quickly that, among Viren’s supposed menagerie of lovers, he’d never been one to dole out pleasure. The way he moved was shy, the hand he had on Aaravos’ thigh clenching it in a vice grip, the tips of his fingers digging into flesh. It was as if he didn’t know what to do with himself, though his other hand seemed to move instinctively, to the place between Aaravos’ legs.

Feeling the light touch, Aaravos pulled back by a margin, enough to where he could watch Viren’s open eyes flicker with dim rage and something else. “Lord,” said Aaravos, “I have no interest in myself. This is for you.”

“So you mean for me to stay still and take it?”

“Is that not what you’re used to?”

Viren’s body reacted with the weight of Aaravos’ words, but he didn’t seem entirely displeased, just mildly put off. A groan rumbled in his chest as he leaned his head back, passing a hand over his face and massaging it. The act only exposed his neck further; Aaravos was quick to indulge him. Wordlessly, Viren gave up. 

In Aaravos’ exploration, he came to understand that Viren knew what to expect, anticipated it with his breath held. He whimpered and sighed just as he should, the timbre of his voice low and breathy, his jaw tilted at just the right angle to allow Aaravos ease of access to his neck. Light bruises were left in the wake of Aaravos’ lips and teeth, dark against Viren’s pale skin. 

Aaravos would have gladly left more, but the line had been set. Viren’s clothing would not be removed. Aaravos had tried the laces again, even managing to undo the first few before Viren had taken notice, but he’d been stopped. Viren’s dignity was an unbending force—but that didn’t matter, not when his collar hung open and showed the unloved skin beneath. Aaravos touched there, again tracing Viren’s veins, committing them to memory. 

The rest of the way, Aaravos relegated to roaming his hands over soft fabrics, the brocade made of courtly blacks, greys, and golds. It was suited to a lord, not a fugitive, but Viren had made it apparent he was too proud to dress any lower. Aaravos wouldn’t complain; the day he removed these clothes and divested Viren of his last piece of pride, he’d think himself victorious. 

Where he kept his knee, every surge of arousal that sparked through Viren was clearly felt. His cock strained against its confines, begging for release. Aaravos ignored it mostly, aside from indulging Viren with a hard press when Viren’s hips rolled, something even the most pragmatic of men couldn’t avoid. 

Aaravos pressed his palm against Viren’s abdomen, blinking once at the lack of give. He’d expected Viren to be softer here, his age and bad knee reasons to not hold himself to a more youthful standard. But, no, there were muscles, dips beneath the fabric that spoke to long years spent training, honing himself for battles never quite fought. 

Viren noticed the pause. His voice was equal parts irritated and smug. “Impressed?”

“Surprised,” Aaravos said. 

“I was a soldier, once. The habits they beat into me never quite left.” Viren sat up a bit, meeting Aaravos’ gaze. “You said you were impressed I’d survived this long already. Why did you think that was? I won’t die so easily.”

“Did you speak this much with the king, too?”

Aaravos hadn’t meant it as an insult; Viren had taken it as one.

There was no lie to Viren’s strength. When he hit, it hurt, and it was enough to snap Aaravos’ head to the side. Stunned silent, Aaravos touched his cheek and winced at the ache the new swelling brought with it. It was good that Viren wore no jewels; they might have left a bruise. 

When his mind caught up with him, Aaravos looked slowly back, quiet, the beat of his own heart ringing in his ears. Viren glowered back at him, his breathing shallow, his face flushed, his arousal still apparent past the fury. He wasn’t at all threatening, try as he might. The strike had taken great effort to deliver, and he still looked ready to roughen Aaravos further, but there was an understanding between them that he couldn’t.

“ _ You _ ,” Viren hissed through clenched teeth, “will keep Harrow off your damned tongue.”

The way he spoke Harrow’s name revealed to Aaravos a deep-seated wound. In Viren’s voice was reverence, sorrow, hatred—and beyond that, love of some kind, the kind that Aaravos couldn’t begin to put a word to. 

When Aaravos said nothing in return, Viren grabbed a lock of long hair and pulled him closer. Aaravos reacted only with a grunt and compliance. They were a hair’s breadth apart; when they breathed, they breathed each other. 

“ _ You aren’t worthy _ ,” said Viren, “ _ of his name _ .”

Aaravos frowned, something unfamiliar rising within him. It didn’t feel good. “Then we won’t speak at all.”

They didn’t. The kiss they shared was smooth and hot, Viren desperate for what seemed like the first touch he’d received in years, and beyond that, a desire to forget. He opened his mouth under Aaravos’ and allowed their tongues to meet. There was nothing of the prior sweetness; every movement, every touch, was deliberate. Aaravos held in one hand Viren’s neck, is fingers digging hard into the sensitive flesh until weals were left behind.

His other hand was busy with Viren’s cock, palming it through the dense fabric, feeling it twitch and swell occasionally. Viren acted accordingly, gasping into Aaravos’ mouth, letting the kiss deepen so that he’d be silenced further. His whole being trembled, inside and out. He wrapped his arms around Aaravos’ middle and drew him closer.

But even when he gave way to pleasure and surrendered himself so eagerly, it was still controlled, practiced. Viren was rigid and moved almost systematically, with no simple sway to the way he touched Aaravos. As they kissed, Viren’s hands traveled up the grooves of Aaravos’ spine to tangle themselves in his hair, holding him firmly in place. 

Satisfaction stirred within Aaravos as he pulled back, his teeth dragging over Viren’s lower lip. Viren looked a mess, and he acted one, too. His hips rolled aggressively up, a sweet gasp leaving him, his shuttered expression unravelling helplessly. Aaravos touched Viren’s cheek and drew a thumb over his swollen lips.

A question lingered at the end of Aaravos’ tongue:  _ How long as it been since your last? _ He didn’t dare ask it, lest he be struck again, but the abandoned way Viren acted now was telling. Aaravos took Viren’s hand into his own and stroked a single finger, where a marriage ring would have once been. Viren had mentioned a wife, but that had evidently fallen to ruin. 

Good. A wife would only complicate things, as the king himself would have. It was best that they were gone—best that Viren had been left alone, without a soul to rely on and only Aaravos to call a friend, an accomplice. 

Viren leaned up to capture Aaravos in another kiss, but Aaravos didn’t allow him the liberty, avoiding it with a curled, bemused smile. Seeming to realize what he’d done, Viren took on a boneless quality, falling back against the chair as he stared up at Aaravos. He looked aghast with himself. 

It wouldn’t take much longer now. Viren’s entirety was almost mapped. 

Aaravos kissed him again, shortly, and removed himself from the chair, falling to his knees and fitting himself between Viren’s spread thighs. The way Viren looked at him was expectant; Aaravos only raised a brow in return and dipped his head forward, kissing at Viren’s inner thigh, not quite where Viren wanted it. Regardless, Viren released a breath. 

Aaravos continued to press kisses there, then moved further down, gently holding Viren’s calf in his hands. He could feel Viren’s gaze, his frustration. Aaravos ignored it and reached Viren’s boot, kissing down to his foot, all but prostrating himself before Viren, but not entirely. The implication at last reached Viren; his frustration disappeared, replaced with satisfaction instead.

He’d be a ruler someday, after all. Aaravos would serve him the day it happened, just like this. 

Their eyes met. Viren reached down and took Aaravos’ chin between two fingers, leaning over so that their mouths would meet. Aaravos obediently surrendered himself to it, a laugh passing through his mouth when he felt Viren smile, too. It was a facade of dominance on Viren’s part. Aaravos was just glad to have struck that hidden nerve in him. 

When they pulled apart, Aaravos’ mouth moved elsewhere, first kissing Viren’s stomach, then covering the growing strain of Viren’s cock. Viren jerked violently, the sound of the chair scraping against the wood floors echoing loudly off the walls. His gasp and the moan that followed were the same; he covered his mouth, desperately, but Aaravos reached up and took Viren’s wrist in a gentle grip, drawing the hand away again. 

“This would be made easier,” Aaravos said, admiring Viren’s eyes, “without the clothes.”

“I thought you said we wouldn’t speak.”

A clear dismissal. Aaravos relented and returned to his task, his tongue flicking forward to press hard against the black cotton that kept them separated. His lips played with the curve of Viren’s cock, finding the shape of the head and focusing his attention there. His hands roamed the rest of Viren, from firm thighs that flexed with each touch, to strong calves that trembled helplessly. He kept note of patterns and branches, kept note of what Viren preferred. 

The last thing Aaravos had expected was Viren grasping one of his horns, pulling him closer, likely without thought. Aaravos stilled, but allowed the act, pressing kisses and nosing the shape of Viren’s cock. Viren’s hips twitched; it was taking all of his self-restraint to not ask for more, though Aaravos could tell he wanted to. It was in his scent, in his heat, in the energy that dripped off of him in pools. 

Aaravos held Viren’s ankles and wrapped his lips around the swell again, feeling the way it almost sent Viren over the edge. His tongue worked its outline and he tasted Viren through the fabric; his own mind dizzied. When Viren pressed himself hard against Aaravos and groaned, loud and unreserved, Aaravos felt it in his chest, which startled him at first, but he pushed it to the back of his mind.

Hands returned to Viren’s thighs, Aaravos thumbed their insides and allowed Viren to roll and thrust as he so pleased, his moans carrying with them some pain. The laces that held Viren in strained; undoing them now would be made so easy, and Aaravos knew Viren wouldn’t object to freedom in the moment. 

But Aaravos decided against it, opting to play with them and tease the offer instead. Had Viren noticed, he said nothing for it. He gripped Aaravos’ other horn and tugged at him again. When Aaravos glanced up, Viren’s eyes were closed, his mouth hanging open shamelessly. 

It was a sight that left Aaravos breathless. Aaravos wanted to witness every moment where Viren surrendered himself further, sinking deeper into the abyss he didn’t know he’d already willingly set foot in. 

Sudden desire took hold of Aaravos’ mind. He drew his mouth back and moved to straddle Viren again, seating himself deliberately atop Viren’s cock. He felt Viren tremble as his hips jerked with the new weight. Aaravos touched Viren’s face with the tenderness a lover might possess—but they were nothing close to that, and Aaravos still bore the mark of Viren’s earlier insult.

He grabbed Viren’s chin and forcibly leaned in, Viren giving himself over to the kiss and allowing Aaravos a moment of exploration, his own tongue curious, searching. Tilting his head, Aaravos worked a thumb into Viren’s mouth and deepened the kiss, letting Viren moan into him, his hips twitching desperately with the promise of release. 

When they parted, it was with Viren chasing Aaravos’ lips and silently asking for more, but Aaravos grabbed the back of Viren’s head and curled fingers into the short hair. He yanked Viren’s head back, hard, ignoring the cry of protest; Viren had become rigid, his climax so near, but ultimately denied to him. 

Aaravos stared down at him, his usual smile gone. With a thin quality to his tone, he said, “Let me take care of you, Lord. Give yourself over.”

“I,” said Viren, who couldn’t protest further when Aaravos kissed him again.

This wasn’t a kiss. Viren reciprocated it at first, but then his eyes fluttered open, and then widened as the pain set in. Aaravos felt it, too, the white hot fury that burned beneath their skin as they were set alight by the rune he’d drawn against Viren’s chest. 

Viren had begun to struggle beneath Aaravos, but Aaravos held him firmly in place, pressing him harder into the chair. Their bodies convulsed and emanated an otherworldly glow; the veins inside Viren raised his skin and were made prominent, their pathways turned white, and hot. 

The same happened to Aaravos, but he endured the pain that Viren couldn’t, watching as slowly, surely, the streaks in Viren’s hair began to recede, the patches marring his skin fading into nonexistence. His pathetic attempts at escape were thwarted as Aaravos grabbed his neck and deepened the connection they’d made, his mouth muffling Viren’s screams. 

Holding Viren was made difficult, however, the longer this continued. Light came out of Viren’s eyes like smoke. Aaravos felt his stomach dip and curl, a chill passing up his spine as he shut his eyes tightly, his muscles pulling taut. The dull ache grew to a throbbing beat as his pulse became rapid, daggers stabbing into his chest and throat and sides until he was unable to breathe. There was a searing heat in his head, a melting sensation.

The pain was shared between them, Viren breaking free long enough to shout, but Aaravos gathered his remaining strength to silence Viren again. It was as though claws had buried themselves in their souls, ripping, tearing. Aaravos felt Viren’s sins crawling through his veins and turning his blood black, boiling it. This hadn’t been pleasant the first time, nor any time after that, and now was no different from the rest. 

But this was the world Aaravos had ordained. 

When he came back to himself, the backs of his eyes stung, his vision blurred by white light. He was standing again, but he stumbled forward, catching himself on the table he’d prepared beforehand, though it nearly gave beneath his weight. He could see nothing—but he knew he was no longer with Viren, relegated back to the other side of the mirror. 

Drawing in a sharp breath, Aaravos waited it out, waited until he could see, and slowly lifted his gaze to Viren, who was in no better shape—but he  _ was _ better, and that was all that mattered. His skin, no longer grey, had a healthy quality to it. When he looked at Aaravos, his eyes weren’t black, but clear and charming, like spun glass. 

“ _ What did you— _ ”

“We are bound,” Aaravos interrupted, noting the raspy quality of his voice. He tried to clear his throat. “You gave me your blood. I gave you mine.”

“And what exactly,” Viren breathed, “does that entail?”

“It’s as it sounds. The connection we’ve forged is deep. The only difference,” he said, “is that I know how to wield such a thing, and you don’t.”

Aaravos couldn’t bear it any longer. His body wasn’t used to this spell. His knees gave and he fell forward, but he still managed to hold onto the table, barely keeping himself upright. His shoulders heaved with every breath he drew in, needle-like sensations stabbing into his chest. When he spoke, the words were pushed out forcefully—and Viren seemed to notice, but he also seemed to not care, reaching inside of his waist satchel and drawing from it an ornate dagger. 

A brief panic swelled in Aaravos as he watched Viren place the dagger’s end to his exposed wrist, pressing down hard until the skin almost broke. It didn’t. Viren hesitated, of course he did, but Aaravos saw in him that heady desire—the desire to end this, draw the blood and let Aaravos drain from his veins. 

Aaravos said, “Your death would accomplish nothing.”

“What did you do to me.” It wasn’t a question.

“Think for yourself,” Aaravos bit back before he remembered his situation and evened out his tone. “How do you feel?”

“As though I’ve been touched by a monster. Answer me.”

Aaravos glanced down and studied his own skin a moment. His veins were still white, weaving across his body in branches. Among the stars that dotted him, a few he’d grown used to had flickered out, melting into the black. Viren was already proof enough that the spell had succeeded, but Aaravos felt relief anyway. Releasing the table, he lowered himself gently to the floor. A cough escaped him; he hid it behind his hand.

A beat passed. Viren said, with a new quality to his voice, “What did you do to  _ yourself? _ ”

“I breathed into you life, and took from you death.” Aaravos lifted his head, smiling now, though it was weary with exhaustion. His head throbbed—a headache, the first he’d experienced in years. “Sun magic, though the spell itself is archaic. You hadn’t been allowed time to heal yet. I sped up the process.”

Viren’s features shifted, his mouth falling slightly open. There was fresh understanding in his gaze. “A healing spell. You— You took the effects of the dark magic into yourself. You passed to me your energy.”

“You are a soiled man, Lord.” Aaravos laughed then, though it was only a breath of amusement, easily missed. Another hollow cough followed it. “I haven’t felt this way in a long,  _ long _ time. Your reliance on the art is perhaps the second worst case I’ve seen. I’d call it impressive—and I will. One moment.”

Aaravos blindly searched for the bowl he’d readied, feeling the acidic bile already rising in his throat and scorching it. The bowl clattered to the floor in front of him; he lurched forward and emptied the contents of his stomach, vaguely catching the distant sound of Viren’s disgust. He ignored it and pressed a fist to his stomach.

When he’d finished, the bowl was filled with a black, fuming liquid, and his veins had disappeared back into his skin. He felt only marginally better, but it was enough to where he could still act as though he were well. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he smiled up at Viren, pleasantly.

“You’re impressive, Lord.”

Viren only stared back at him, wide-eyed and wordless. His gaze followed Aaravos as he returned the bowl to the table and stood, acting like nothing happened, wearing his usual smile—which had never seemed to relax Viren, though Aaravos didn’t think it particularly threatening. Disregarding the heated electricity that still burned under his skin, Aaravos clasped his hands before him and tilted his head, innocuously. 

“Do you feel better?”

“You—” Viren shut his mouth, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose as he settled himself back into his chair. When he looked at Aaravos, there were no hints of the time they’d shared, his usual disgruntled expression returned. His voice carried with it the same feeling. “I could destroy this mirror,” he said. “I could spare myself from having to look at you.”

“You hardly look at me anyway, Lord. Is this your way of showing gratitude? I accept.”

Opening his mouth to rebuke, a series of knocks at the room’s door interrupted Viren. At first he ignored it, but then the knocks became more desperate. Viren’s brows knitted as he stood and threw the door open, a nerve-stricken houseboy on the other side. 

“What?” said Viren, without preamble.

“Sir,” said the houseboy after several moments of silence, his doe-like eyes falling across Viren. “Another guest complained of a loud noise. We worried you might have hurt yourself, but…”

The words died off slowly. The houseboy saw what Aaravos did: Viren, his pristine facade muddled by flushed skin, disheveled clothing, and bruised lips. His collarbone was exposed, and the marks Aaravos had left dotted his neck in red bruises. He looked the part of a man thoroughly sexed—and presented himself without shame, even when he came to realize his own appearance. 

Holding his chin a bit higher, Viren stared down his nose at the houseboy, a look that might have scared a lesser man away. The houseboy, however, after glancing inside the room and seeing no one else present, was undeterred. He smiled sweetly back at Viren, easily arranging himself against the doorframe, obviously practiced.

“Sir,” the houseboy said, his voice dropping to a bashful yet inviting timbre, “if you are in need of… assistance, I would be glad to—”

“No.” 

The houseboy was unable to fit another word in, Viren closing the door on him and once again throwing the latch. A few quiet beats passed, and then from the other side came a dejected huff, as well as retreating footsteps. Aaravos felt amusement bubble in his chest, even past the dull burden of pain. 

Left alone to their solitude, Viren returned to his chair, but he did not sit. His hand ran over its back, tracing the old wood. Aaravos felt they were thinking the same thing: it was a miracle the chair had been able to hold them both. 

Viren gave Aaravos a sidelong glance. “You’re smiling.”

“That boy thought you handsome.” As was his right. Viren was a lovely sight to anyone who knew how to appreciate such a man. “If you’d wanted him, you could have invited him in. I wouldn’t have minded. I understand that I left you in a vulnerable—”

“Stop.” Viren denied Aaravos his face; the tips of his ears were red. Aaravos admired them a moment before his gaze fell to Viren’s cinched waist, his silhouette handsome. “You’ve done enough already, and you’ve yet to properly explain yourself. Was there any point to the— To the—”

He was struggling. Aaravos took pity on him. “The kissing?”

“To  _ all _ of it.”

“Your veins.” Aaravos smiled again when Viren looked at him. He lifted an arm, tracing the invisible pathways with a finger. “Your veins are where dark magic concentrates. I needed to know where to focus my attention.” His smile grew wider by a margin, his gaze hooded. “The rest was an added touch.”

“An added touch.”

Aaravos nodded. His intent had been to make things less frightening for Viren—though, at the back of his mind, he knew his actions had been borne of something else, too, something he couldn’t understand fully. Nothing Viren needed to know. 

Viren was stiff, his mouth opening, then closing again. Aaravos understood his concern; they couldn’t do this every time Viren performed dark magic. It’d kill them both, eventually. 

The hand that held the back of the chair was clenched, the lines of Viren’s bones lifting his skin. His knuckles had turned white as he considered again what Aaravos had said—but words didn’t come easy, even for a lord. He said, quietly, “It could have been simpler.”

“Yes.” Aaravos came forward and touched the mirror, watching as Viren’s gaze lifted, then fell to Aaravos’ mouth, an act performed so quickly that Aaravos almost didn’t catch it—but he certainly felt it, his chest constricting suddenly. He swallowed, chastising himself. “Next time,” he said, “it will be simpler.”

“Next time,” Viren echoed. 

It wasn’t an objection, nor was it an invite. 

For now, it would be enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is about as self-indulgent as i get hope you enjoy
> 
> (thank you to xtine and gyo for helping me edit!! i love you both)


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